


Start A Fire

by CaptainDefunct



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Lust or Love, Rare Pairings, Sloppy Makeouts, are you?, i'm garbage, not me, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 12:38:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9657809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainDefunct/pseuds/CaptainDefunct
Summary: This is Jamison though, he’s not a fan boy looking to score a point in D.Va’s personal handbook. He's not easily persuaded by the bat of long lashes and puckered lips smelling faintly of cherry lip gloss. He’s, well, he’s Junkrat.





	

**Author's Note:**

> It's unedited and it's 5:30 in the morning. This is because I'm garbage and if anyone is willing to pollute this site with more M and E rated D.Varat fanfics, thank you.

### Start a Fire

Nervously pacing up and down the hall, Hana runs through the millions of outcomes to her current dilemma. One potential action springs to mind, leading to another, which leads to a string of countless others. Though, all the consequences her mind conjures up end the same. A door to the face and the consuming shame of rejection. She shakes her head free of the self-loathing thoughts.

_Why was this so difficult?_

Why is it difficult to convey lusting emotions to the object of your affection? It isn’t like some silly crush the hormonal girls in Junior High gush over in locker rooms—it holds a depth no girl under nineteen should feel. Wedged in a seemingly permanent place between love and lust, Hana is in a never-ending medium where her body is tingling with a needy heat and her mind is begging her to tell him something, _anything_ remotely passionate. This is Jamison though, he’s not a fan boy looking to score a point in D.Va’s personal handbook hoping for recognition. He's not easily persuaded by the bat of long lashes and puckered lips smelling faintly of cherry lip gloss. He’s, well, he’s Junkrat.

D.Va would march right into his room and tell him she likes him and since she’s a celebrity, he should feel honored. Then, let him take what she allows. Hana Song isn’t as forward as D.Va pretends to be on the wide television screens and in video game streams. Still, she’s tired of throwing the dog numerous bones; dropping hints with lingering glances, flirty jokes, and ghosting caresses and Junkrat is a hyperactive dog that doesn’t seem to catch any enticing object that flies by his head; bone or not.

She wants something physical, forbidden, and thrilling. He is the only one she can imagine giving her what she wants. He’s in her fantasies at night; kissing her, filling her, murmuring her name. She stops pacing in front of his door, glaring fiercely at it like it’s the door’s fault she’s feeling all hot and bothered. His name tauntingly stares back in scribbled, unreadable writing on a dry erase board, smiling insignia artlessly drawn under it and _laughing_ at her shortcomings. Both mark Junkrat’s territory; a Junker habit formed from growing up in the wastelands of Australia. Running a hand nervously through her pesky bangs, adrenaline pumps steadily through her veins, excited by the prospect of visiting him _alone._

_What will happen when she opens the door?_

Probably nothing.

Hana begrudgingly admits that nothing will _change_ if she doesn’t _try_. Tapping lightly on the door; she hears the muffled _“Whadda want?”_ before knocking again. His prickly response shifts to a more approachable and welcoming _“The door’s open!”_ which is as polite as he will ever get to unexpected company.

Hana inhales deeply, turning the knob and stepping inside. Closing the door and leaving her pessimism in the hallway. She quietly locks it shut; unwanted guests are easily avoided with the flick of a lock. Wandering eyes take in the state of his personal quarters, the overpowering odor of gunpowder wafts through the windowless living space. The room looks like he had thrown one of his bombs into it, quickly sealed the door shut behind him, and waited for the destructive aftermath. The living quarter looks more abandoned than livable; various fragments of scrapped ideas and traps litter the floor, piles of sheets thrown carelessly off the bed huddled against the closest corner.

She finds Jamison across the room.

He sits in his old office chair. The computer chair is a prehistoric design, black leather of the chair bulky; awkwardly wide seat cushion, and plastered with his signature yellow, smiley face. Papers are splayed across the tungsten desk—both pieces of antique furniture he had brought up (made Roadhog carry) from the storage room to his personal quarters. The dingy desk light illuminates the tiny corner of his work space—the only ‘clean’ area in the room. The disfigured, gangly outline of his shadow hunches over him on the wall beside the desk, curiously peering down as he works. He’s writing or drawing—Hana spots the pencil moving diligently in his hand.

She makes to step forward when Junkrat says without looking towards her;

“Careful of the trap.” He snickers wildly like he’s hearing the screams of someone’s pain in his head. “Best to keep both legs, yeah?”

Glancing down, the silvery teeth of a bear trap glistens threateningly back up at her; mouth open, and patiently waiting for an unlucky visitor to take the wrong step. Hana expertly avoids it.

 “Ya need somethin’”, Junkrat asks, pushing off his desk to turn the chair—it gives up halfway on the turn. Papers flutter to the ground, forgotten amongst others. The chair squeals irritatingly, the rusted springs defiantly refusing to completely turn as he physically struggles to force the furniture to heed his commands. With its refusal to cooperate, he settles for twisting his entire body to half face his visitor. The attire of ammo packs, belts, and giant rip tire are absent on his scrawny frame. Explosives aren’t permitted in quarters; various incidents set this rule in motion; most (all) involving him in some way.

His brows worm up his forehead, clearly not expecting the company. “What are ya doin’ here?”

“I was just bored.” Hana answers nonchalantly, and plops on his bed. She’s already decided outside the door that she isn’t leaving until there is a definite change in their relationship; her hormones won’t let her leave anyway. Jamison fixes her with a long stare before shrugging off the intrusion, returning to his clutter of blue graph paper. They sit in staggering silence as he continues his little project, pencil scratches the only audible sound in the tiny living space. His brows wrinkle together in concentration, tongue running along dry lips, and back muscles tense from the unhealthy way he hunches over when he sits. Hana bites her lip, twitchy fingers wanting to melt the tension away. Imagine how those muscles would _feel_ under her palms. She folds her hands together till it hurts to still the fidgeting.

“So”, she starts, her voice a bit hoarse. She clears her throat, tries again. “What are you working on?”

“Tryin’ out some new ideas.” He responds, indifferent. He names them off—his genius ideas—cackling loudly when he mentions something about explosive bear traps and the results the beauty would surely bring to the team. Then he’s mumbling incoherent sentences, prattling on about uninteresting subjects while Hana pretends to listen.

_This isn’t getting her anywhere._

She’s more distracted by the way his eyes flicker with childhood excitement when he describes the vivid colors of explosions and the passion he expresses through animated facial features alone. Her heart flutters encouragingly.

Getting off the bed, Hana sighs under her breath.

_Now or never._

Quiet steps skillfully avoid the mayhem that has become of the living quarters. She hovers over his shoulder, peering at the crude illustrations on the graph paper. He doesn’t seem to notice her yet, still involved in a one-sided conversation.

Slowly, her hand rests on the chair, barely touching his shoulder. Then she daringly takes the plunge, gracing over a particularly old scar on his left shoulder. He stiffens, freezing mid-ramble. He cocks his head to stare up at her vaguely puzzled, brow raised curiously. She blinks back, an innocent smile gracing her lips. Taking a sudden interest in the blueprints on the desk, Hana leans forward, ignoring the bewildered stare prickling her skin. Eventually, he continues to doodle, Hana taking the opportunity to map out the freckles on his shoulder with her index finger. The unanticipated action causes him to drop the pencil in his hand. The writing utensil rolls off the table, clattering to the ground. The chair screeches nosily as he faces her head on.

“What are ya doin’?” He inquires belligerently. She can’t comprehend why he’s seething, but it doesn’t deter her from her motives; to Hell with ludicrous rules.

Hana wields the sensation of gentle touches to answer his stupid question.

Tiny digits trace the rough contours of sun-kissed shoulders, poking at the hellish eyes of his skull tattoo, counting the tiny freckles that speckle the skin. It is a message meant to convey without weighty words.

He says nothing. This time, he doesn’t stop her.

Swallowing heavy doubts, Hana continues prodding, refusing to watch his expressions; afraid of what she might see. Experimentally, she sinks manicured nails into his solid biceps. His entire body responds to the slight pain, squirming in his seat. The leather under him groans out protestations, the sporadic movements overexerting the haggard chair.

He easily catches her wrists.

"Hana."

Molten irises darken, like an overcast of somber cumulus clouds before the storm strikes. The grip on her wrists is constricting, halting her from proceeding onward.

"Don't start somethin'." He cautions darkly. “I’m tellin’ ya to quit it, mate.”

The warnings on her behalf are avoidable and unnecessary. The hidden intent is to scare her away from him, from whatever _this_ is. He is a dangerous, untamable force; unstable in mind and body. His empty threats are not demands to stop—they’re merely suggestions. Their aim is off, not hitting the intended mark and Junkrat is not the stern, stoic type like Dad 76. Shaking her wrists free, he offers little resistance.  

Hana isn’t afraid—she knows what she wants.

It is no longer a tiny want in the back of her mind; it’s an unrelenting need to touch him. Gentle hands cup his face, searing skin burns against her palms and stubble pricks teasingly at the tips of her fingers. The temperature of his body is astoundingly warm to the touch like a furnace brimming with blazing cinders. Always hot, his heat is a steady fire licking at her skin, tempting her to indulge in desire. Hana forces him to stare at her, she’s silently seeking permission to press on. The approving nod she receives in response is barely perceptible. Although, the contradictions of his uncertainty are betrayed by his eyes igniting in anticipation.

Hunching over him, Hana brings him forward. Closer, she needs him closer till the tips of noses touch. Tiny breaths spill faintly over the plump flesh of her lips, waiting expectantly for her to cross the boundary. She isn’t sure why hesitation boils in the pit of her stomach, unable to press forward. This is what she needs, right?

_Right?_

When Jamison loses self-control and takes the first step, she can’t seem to care. It’s a terse meeting of lips then realization seems to sink in and he aggravatingly pulls away. Brows furrowed, mouth in a grim line; he’s clearly contemplating what to do next. There is something amusing about Junkrat attempting to be the reasonable one in the situation. Very unfitting for a man that throws land mines on the ground and uses the force from the explosion to reach better distances despite Mercy’s—everyone’s—second opinions. Yet here is the same man mulling over repercussions before any—if at all will—begin to surface. It isn’t like him to obtain adult responsibility. Of all times, Jamison chooses _now_ to be the mature person—to think it through.

There’s more to it, Hana understands this. Jamison is a mental case of raw emotions; violent tendencies, blurring—practically non-existent—morals, and the twists of insanity from years of radiation sparking his destructive nature at any moment like a ticking bomb. Danger is a valuable ally to Jamison Fawkes. It has the tendency to cling heavily to his shoulders, follow him wherever he goes like a loyal companion. Although, Jamison _is_ a man capable of caring for others—in his own way. The mutual affection he holds towards her are the same reason he doesn’t advance any further; deflect every hint hurled in his general direction. His capacity to care stops him from acting on any other, more complicated feelings; to protect her. Hana doesn’t want to be protected, she wants him to break the rules like he always does and take her up on her open-ended offer

Frustrated, Hana pulls him in for another kiss. She grasps his shoulders firmly so all he can do is feel the sensation of her lips on his, trying to cease this silly thinking, prove to him this is what she wants. It’s as simple and meaningless as the first except Hana is the one to move away. Questioning gaze searching his for any signs of discomfort: he’s more confused than anything else. Although, her chaotic mind is rampant with doubts of her own—cleverly disguised by the false placidity gentling her features. _What **will** this lead to? Is this too fast?_ A thousand unspoken queries remain in thoughts while she offers a tender smile, temptingly licking her lips to savor the new taste. He watches the tiny action with clenched teeth, visibly swallowing.

Then his lips cover hers to return the favor from before.

The chaste kiss follows another and another. The distance between them shrinking faster, lingering longer until neither can find the will to disconnect. Lips molding together, his hands rest tactfully on the arms of the chair; not touching. Disappoint coils in her stomach; a latent pout remains unseen as his rough lips move with hers. 

Jamison’s actions tell her everything he feels. The reluctance to push boundaries that cross the lines of their relationship—whatever it can be labeled; the apprehension about whether this is what she truly _wants_ and it’s not just a _‘spur of the moment’_ kind of thing. Hana deepens the kiss; there are no regrets tonight. Guiding his hands to find their rightful place on her hips; she hums approvingly when lanky fingers of metal and flesh trace the curves of her sides. Shamefully aware of the height difference, Hana is pleased with the positon they’re in now; towering above him while he sits obediently in the chair. Forcing him to accommodate for the height, neck craned upward to keep their mouths connected.

Shudders dance up her vertebrae as he nibbles teasingly at her bottom lip—asking a silent inquiry. Allowing the excess he craves, he eagerly tastes every inch of her mouth available to him; coiling his tongue with hers like tying precise knots. He’s surprisingly sweet; his taste. The Boba tea he enjoys religiously having a significant impact. The fleshy fingers of his left hand deviously roam up the hem of her shirt. Coarse fingertips fervently burn a trail up her stomach, ghosting over the fabric of her bra while the robotic digits of the other hand dig into the soft flesh of her hip, hard enough to bruise.

She whimpers into his mouth, veins surging approvingly, and sending a sweltering flare throughout her tremoring body. Her stance falters from the uncontainable quivering, but he holds her upright. There’s a firm yank on her bra strap, coaxing her to sit on his lap; yearning for more affection, more _heat_. They both ignore the outcries of the chair as she sinks her weight into it. Hana finds her legs on either side of his lanky body, chest flush against another, straddling him. The delicious friction of this position causing them both to moan their ecstasy into the kiss.

She can’t keep her hands to herself. They skim over hard biceps before descending painstakingly slow to stroke firm abs built from years of overexerting his scraggly form, he groans his appreciation into her mouth. Halting her explorative hands, mischievous fingers to tease the waistband of his shorts.  

The need for oxygen soon overpowers the need for kisses. Hana withdraws reluctantly, his unique taste still on her tongue. Breathless and dizzy, the euphoria of the kiss sedates her judgment; hazy with a new form of desire. Unable to think rationally, she concentrates on her heightened senses; the lingering scent of generic corner store soap and the sting of gunpowder radiating off his sweaty skin, the unsteady rise and fall of his torso pressing into her breasts (well aware of the hand still under her shirt), and the sensual fever scorching throughout her. Jamison is a panting mess of his own; greedily heaving in enough air for the both of them.

“Yer drivin’ me crazy here, love.” He slurs out thoughtlessly like he’s inebriated, mindlessly drumming his fingers on the lacy fabric of her bra. The last syllable in his senseless murmuring pervades the fogginess in her mind. The effortless switch from _‘mate’_ to _‘love’_ makes her heart involuntarily jump. Hana glances at him expectantly, lips tingling and face flushed from asphyxiation. The fierce amber irises that gaze back are softer than before, pillowed by the lust he feels, and something else unnamable: her mind is into too much of a scramble to provide the word.

Sketching out the curve of his jaw, she grinds against him, wordlessly pleading for him to do _something_. The groan escapes his mouth before it covers hers once more. Breaking the kiss to plant sloppy open-mouth kisses along her neck; Hana squirms in delight. Breezily lifting her up, he carries her to the short trip to bed, stumbling mid-way on a pile of Overwatch brochures from months ago collecting dust. He grumbles curses into her neckline, successfully making his way to bed without any more mishaps. She falls willingly to the sheets, him falling after. Jamison hovers above her, the festering heat of his body permeating through her clothes, igniting her already flaring skin. One glance at his face and Hana immediately catches the hesitance in his amber eyes.

“Ya sure about this? Do ya want ta—‘Cause we can—I mean, I ain’t—“, He trails off, like he forcefully has to make his vocal cords work to speak simple words. Although it’s a jumbled, unfinished mess of a sentence, Hana has already deciphered its meaning. _Are you sure you want to continue this?_ She nods firmly, circling her arms around his neck to kiss him tenderly and with reassuring certainty. She wants this, every part of her body is demanding to continue what they mutually started.  

The kiss turns fiercer, nimble tongues meeting and twirling in desperate motions. Hana is acutely aware of his hands pawing at the edge of her shirt, leisurely bunching it further and further up her stomach. She helps him speed the process along; pulling it over her head, discarding it to the floor. The frilly bra is removed easily enough, his experience in the matter of undergarment removal vividly apparent compared to her inexperience.

There’s a pause in his actions. His gaze boldly drinks in her naked state, the direction of his attention painfully obvious. Her cheeks flush a rosy pink, embarrassed.

Self-consciousness is something _D.Va_ rarely experiences. Her job doesn’t allow her to show weaknesses or reluctance, each movement she makes is assured and confident. Hana is not entirely like her created persona. Under all the confidence and egotistical remarks is a war-torn soul with the unseen fragility that comes with being a teenager. D.Va is constantly surrounded by thousands of buzzing strangers that miraculously found a hero in a girl that streams mind-numbing video games for a living; Hana Song isn’t swallowed by masses in the confides of the Overwatch base. With her fellow team members, with Jamison—people who push her buttons, deal the cards she plays back at her tenfold, and make her discard the phony, tooth-rotting sweetness of D.Va’s façade; she can actually be herself. A bratty pessimist with the love for salty snacks and video games.

The feeling of self-doubt as she lies exposed is a persistent annoyance in the crevices of her mind. There are no restraints to keep them away. _D.Va_ is gone, in a world that exists outside the stifling air of Jamison’s bedroom. Worried thoughts flood Hana’s mind, she unintentionally holds in a breath.

_What if she isn’t what he wants? Why isn’t she like Mei—curvy and soft—or Symmetra—developed and stunning? Maybe he’s disappointed?_

“Yer a sight, babe”, he says with a sultry grin, eyes slowly devouring every inch of her skin like he’s trying to remember every mark, every dip of her curves. She wants to laugh out loud despite herself because her worries suddenly seem so unnecessary.

His mouth and hands eagerly explore the new territories available to him. It’s an intoxicating contradiction—his hands. One scorches her skin, able to make her back arch off the mattress; the other raises goosebumps, swirls intricate designs with smooth digits. Both send electrifying currents shuddering up her spine, his name fumbling clumsily past her lips. His tongue mimics the patterns of his fingertips, a wet trail starts at the underside of her breasts, drawing a tiny line of saliva to the column of her neck, and ends with sharp canines burying into her neckline.

“I—“, Hana rasps out, withering underneath him. The thought is lost in mewing moans of euphoria as he adds more marks along the dip of her shoulder.

Her mind is in disarray, muddled with lust. Pointless thoughts drown deeply in the desire bubbling in the pit of her abdomen and she readily submits.

…

Hana wakes to gentle touches stroking the outline of her spine.

It’s a foreign sensation to wake up to—the body heat of another—but she can’t complain. It’s a new addiction, the feeling of Jamison pressed tightly against her. Nose burying into the warmth seeping off her partner, Hana mentally applauds the firmness of his upper torso. The salty aroma of sweat clings to her nose, the acidic stench of his life’s work lingering stubbornly behind. Pressing a chaste kiss to his thrumming heartbeat, Hana inhales his musty scent. She doesn’t think she’ll be able to ever sleep alone again; stuffed bunnies will no longer suffice as valuable sleeping companions.

 “Mornin’”, he whispers huskily against the shell of her ear, hand giving a firm squeeze to her backside. She shivers in delight, the intimate moments of last night blurring into a plethora of colors and sensual emotions. Bleary eyes blink away exhaustion, a yawn crawling its way up her throat. Sex sore muscles protest ardently when she tries to stretch the knots and cranks in her joints away. Every motion she makes feels sluggish as the fatigue weighs heavily down on her aching appendages. 

“Is it really morning?” She asks drowsily, throat achingly sore; from calling his name, her brain supplies a logical answer. A hand rises from under the nest of covers to examine the goofy look on his face, pinching his cheek playfully. His beaming smile doesn’t falter, basking in the afterglow with the intensity of the summer heat in July. He shrugs in response to her unimportant question, eyes burning with remnants of passion shared hours ago. Indulging him with a kiss, Hana sighs happily when he angles his head to take advantage of her offer, relearning the inside of her mouth with strokes of his tongue.  

Hooking her legs behind his bony calf, his knee unintentionally grinds between her thighs. She makes a pained gasping sound, yanking away to clutch at his shoulders, hissing through her teeth. His movements still instantaneously.

“Oi”, he peers down at her, worried. “Hana, you all roight there?”

The dull pain throbbing between her legs subsides, grip relaxing and leaving crescent-shaped imprints upon his shoulders. She nods, resting contently against his chest.

“I’m fine”, she reassures, softly. “Just sore because of someone I know.”

He cackles, sifting his fingers through messy tussles of brown hair. “I can’t say I’m sorry for somethin’ I ain’t sorry for.” He replies, smugly.

She snorts.

“Pervert.”

They lay in companionable silence. Fingers mindlessly run through her hair, untangling knots made by the hectic movements of their sexual pleasure. Hana listens to the rapid drums of his heart, enjoying the gentle caresses of her friend-with-benefits? Lover?—whatever he is. As dizzying as his presence is, Hana can’t keep the question surrounding last night from surfacing.

She admits they had moved too fast, too drunk off each other’s touches to care. His eagerness to strip and mount her as quickly as possible had to have meant something. Then again, she is as guilty as any criminal caught on camera. It is what she wanted; the reason she stalked outside his room for thirty minutes. Except, where the Hell did this leave them?

_What did this mean exactly? Had anything really changed after this?_

The unanswered questions leave a bitter taste in her mouth. She could simply _talk_ to him about it like a human being instead of letting the thoughts fester, slowly chewing away at her sanity. Sneaking a glance up at his face, Hana smiles affectionately at the sight. He’s asleep; mouth unattractively open, drool trailing down his chin and dampening the pillow.

She’ll can always ask later.

_Maybe after another round._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to bed. I'll fix it later. Maybe. Kinda tired of looking at it. Thanks for reading. Oh, yeah, my first story on this site. Woo. Good night.


End file.
